"To Stick or Not To Stick" (in a craw, that is)

I am perusing my List of Motherly Things To Do and checking off a few items.

Transition Grace into a big bed: check.
That particular item that has been sticking in my proverbial craw as of late is now taken care of, with minimal damage. Phew.

So what's next on tap for the craw?

Let's see ...
Find out what a "craw" is, exactly. I'll get on that.
Next:
Potty training?
No way. Moving on.

Ah, here it is ... the hard one for me. The one that must be done. The one I don't think I can avoid any longer. The one that will break my heart.

Giving away our baby things.

Oh, the pang, the pang! But the Call of Practicality has been sounding loud and clear and cannot be ignored any longer. Grace is slowly but surely beginning the spurt out of 3T into 4T (at two-and-a-half?!); Aidan just got another big bag of hand-me-down clothes from his cousins. What do I do with the old stuff? In the past I boxed it up, labeled it neatly, and stacked it away in the attic. But I can't do that anymore. The attic is filling up. There's no more room in the inn.

I've written about this before. For some reason, it just breaks my emotional heart. It's 80% sentimental, 20% journey-themed. Bitterness (of the irrational sort) churns in my gut toward those who (again, irrationally -- well, somewhat) put me in this position in the first place, having to make these difficult decisions. That's the journey part -- a work in perpetual progress. But the sentimental cog is much, much stronger. I just don't want to give away those clothes. I don't want to close that chapter in my life, in their little lives. I can never get my babies back, but if I hang on to pieces of it ... I know -- I'm nuts. There is that purge-happy side of me that barks, "That's completely impractical! Buck up! Purge away!" I can't keep saving clothes. Even if that phenomena happens to knock on our door down the road -- that "oops" baby -- I can't save bin after bin of clothing, "just in case." Oh, it's crazy emotional for me.

The other day Don and I were in the attic, shifting boxes around in order to access the Grace's "big girl" mattress, wedged between unused box springs, unused twin bed frames, and Don's boxed up clergy existence. He then spied the wall of neatly labeled, neatly stacked clothing bins. He looked at me. "You really need to do something about this," he said. Not meanly -- just matter-of-factly.

I burst into tears. I surprised myself, really, but I surprised him even more. His eyebrows shot heavenward, his eyes widened, his arms flew around me instinctively. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"

I spewed out some of what I was feeling, rather jumbled, quite incoherent. I don't think he understood -- he heard me, yes, but it's a bit of "women are from Venus" for him. What he saw was very manly-Mars-like ... he saw unused clothing; he saw our finished family; he saw much-needed space being hogged by un-needed items. But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he also saw tears, dreams, emotions ... a confusing jumble. But it's my jumble.

It has to be done, I know. But if I am being completely honest, it hurts. It's a grieving process for me. I began yesterday, starting small. I took an old Pampers box and filled it with some baby toys -- graduated rings, stacking blocks, shape sorters -- to make room on a small shelf in the living room, a shelf that will now house Power Rangers or Hot Wheels. I am OK with shedding the baby toys -- well, sort of. I still hear those "what if ..." whispers in my ear. Next I planned to move on to the bigger items -- high chair, exersaucer, swing -- and put them all in one place, ready for pickup. My parents' church routinely makes trips to Cary, Mississippi in a huge truck, bringing donations of all kinds to needy folks there with whom they have a partnership. I do feel good about giving my well-loved items to folks who have nothing, but still ... I'm a mother. I'm an emotional, sentimental, big-hearted mother. It's hard.

I spent a few hours in the attic yesterday. I lovingly picked up every bin and moved them out of the front room, placing them in a different part of the attic. I shed a lot of private tears as I looked at each box -- Aidan, 0-3 months. My baby Aidan. My boy who struggled with sleep. My first child whose first year I don't remember much. The items in that 0-3 months box are a link to my baby -- a link I have to break. Grace, 0-6 months. My sweet baby girl. My baby with none of the stress of the first. My baby whom I enjoyed so much I found at times I didn't want her to grow up. Another link to sort through. Each box was moved and piled up, awaiting their sorting fate. It was hard just to move those bins; how much more so will it be to rummage through them and -- ultimately -- carry it all away.

Friends have told me to sort through and keep a few items from each child, those clothes that either meant something, were especially adorable, and so on. A few items? Just watch me. I'll find something important, some string attached for each and every single one, and nothing will be discarded. Just watch.

No, it must be done. But I'm starting small. I'll get up there again soon. Oh, why must my small ones grow so big ...